There were four walls in the room where I almost grew up
If you live a working class life, you’ll turn green and bile will rise to your mouth
Babies come from science, they come from the earth, they come from coal-mines
Fighter jets are told what to do by businessmen, CEOs, and presidents
What we live on is held by women, how we die is controlled by the men
My knees shook when I came close to that room
It was like I had died years and years ago and it was me in the box
If it was me then they sure had given me a good burial
I wonder what I did to deserve lavish canopic jars
The gold was faded, but it was still there
When I think about death I think about the picture that used to be in the living room
It was swirly and confusing and monochrome
When I sit up straight in bed and exclaim in shock, the picture rushes to my head
I remember in the dark that life has always been like this
The Egyptians knew death, and so do modern artists
The modern artists drip anxieties
Egyptians competed to have the finest tombs
They made death into a status symbol
I wish I could understand as much as they did
I wish I could live knowing the truth about time